


We're Running Out of Alibis

by jojothecr



Series: Change of Season 'Verse [8]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Written in 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojothecr/pseuds/jojothecr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“’What is it?’ she said. ‘In him. What does he do that he breaks all of your walls so easily? How? Why? Is it because he’s a man? Or is it just… Jared?’” / Follows <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/253946">Unaware, You're Tearing Me Asunder, Thunder in Our Hearts</a> 10 days after its events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Running Out of Alibis

Jensen opens the door of his apartment and sighs, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he asks, his tone tired and irritated, and so cold it stings.

His voice is deep and hoarse like he’s just woken up. Or like he’s been awake for way too long. Noticing the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the mild, weary lines on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth, the fact he’s still wearing jeans at two in the morning, Jared thinks that the latter possibility is probably closer to the truth. And that Jensen actually looks like he hasn’t slept properly for a good couple of days. His hair is ruffled, a little crumpled, and his face unshaved, covered in a two-day stubble, and there’s a smear of dry blood on the margin of his chapped bottom lip. He’s scarily pale, which makes his eyes look so much bigger and deeper, almost hostile. He looks worse than Jared remembers seeing him; including all the hangovers and flu bugs, ear infections and tonsillitis they’ve gone through.

“You look awful,” Jared notes quietly, thinking, _knowing_ , that he’s to blame. Him, and all his steps, forward and back. His consuming indecision, the fear to be who he really is and feel what he feels. Still wanting to take what is no longer his. Taking it anyway.

He still wishes he could be sorry for what happened that night of his birthday, knows that he should be and hopes he is, somewhere down; he knows that Jensen is, terribly so. Knows it by his silence, by the way he’s been dodging every of Jared’s attempts to talk, to settle the whole mess between them. To lessen the gaping abyss the morning after had re-opened in their labelless relationship. Again.

Jensen doesn’t want to talk, not any time before, not now. “Thanks. That all you’ve come to tell me?”

“No.”

“Fine. Then save it for tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jensen nods, straightening up. “Later then. Good night.”

Jared puts his hand on the solid, mahogany wood of the door right before Jensen has a chance to slam it into his face. “We won’t talk later, because we never do. All you’ve been doing for the last ten days is running away from me, avoiding me. Looking for excuses and stupid reasons just so you don’t have to be alone with me… You said you’re not sorry, but you are. Jensen, that night--”

“That night was a--!” Jensen snaps, now startlingly awake and angry, but then he stops himself again and looks around, all of a sudden afraid that someone’s listening, watching. His position and expression change so fast that Jared barely has a chance to notice he’s moving until all of his inches and pounds are suddenly right in Jared’s space, strong and threatening. He curls his fingers in the front of Jared’s shirt and yanks him inside, kicking the door closed behind them. “That night was a mistake,” he hisses, his tone low and schooled, deliberately void of any emotion. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

 _‘But it has’,_ Jared wants to object petulantly. _‘And guilty or not, you liked it just as much as me.’_

He wonders if Jensen is that mad because it happened, or simply scared that it’s gonna happen again. Or maybe mad because he wants it to happen again. Just like Jared. Every time he looks at him.

Jensen’s breath tastes of green tea and cigarette smoke, and it’s only then that Jared notices the thin cigarette clasped haphazardly between the same fingers that are so firmly gripping his T-shirt. Jensen’s eyes are wild and fuming, penetrating Jared’s own with frustration and reproaches, and there’s such heat in them that a shiver, an aching tingle of want sizzles down Jared’s spine. He barely silences the moan building in his chest, the sudden desire to just grab him and push him up against the closest wall, touch him and kiss him until he gives up all of his fights. Like the last time.

He used to be better at this, Jared knows. Better at hiding his feelings, ignoring his desires. Able to just stand there beside Jensen and talk to him, or act and deliver Sam’s lines, suppressing the lust warming up his veins. But the night they made love has changed it, unavoidably, burnished every faded memory to high digital quality and colors, and uncorked all the bottled up emotions and feelings. Having Jensen that close again, after so long, the chance to feel him, re-learn all the well-mapped freckles and lines, and discover new ones, make him moan, tremble and finally fall apart, was both a blessing and damnation. Because it only reminded him how well they used to fit, how perfectly in sync they were, once. How well they knew each other, all the secret spots and words, the natural, spontaneous flow of their bodies.

For a moment - the briefest and most hopeful second, Jared thinks that Jensen’s actually thinking the same, feeling the same, and leaning closer, but even if he is, or was, he stops himself just in time, too far. He makes a little pained sound in the back of his throat and releases his hold on Jared, stepping back and throwing his hands up in a clueless, defeated gesture.

  


Running his fingers over the polychrome backs of the books in one of the shelves mindlessly, Jared smiles faintly when he notices that there are actually more books lying all around in the living room than placed in the library. There are several books on the coffee table, open or closed but with various pieces of paper stuck in between the pages, old ones in leather binding with well-thumbed covers, new ones, barely touched. He pauses when his fingers brush the edge of an overturned glass photo frame that rests between a great pink sea shell and Jensen’s old camera.

Intrigued, Jared picks it up and turns around, and his smile instantly freezes, transforming into a bitter, guilty grimace.

It’s a photo of Jensen and Danneel, a few summers back, perched on the edge of a swimming pool at Jensen’s parents’ old house. She’s settled in between Jensen’s spread knees, leaning against his bare chest and looking up into his face. Looking at him like he’s the one, the only one. The centerfold and front cover, every single word of the main article. Something that Jared hadn’t realized until recently, so damn late. Jensen’s looking into the lens of the camera, at his mom or dad, maybe Mackenzie. His eyes, purely green and narrowed into the sun, are crinkled at the corners, and there’s a small smile playing on his lips, barely there, but the sweeter. He looks so free, so relaxed. A few years younger, a couple of winters happier.

Jared glances over at Jensen standing in the open window, and sighs. He’s nothing like the man in the photo. This Jensen feels cold, constantly tensed and nervous, distant and unapproachable. Like someone Jared doesn’t actually know, has never really known. He’s looking down at the streets, watching the slow night traffic, and smoking, holding the cigarette so convulsively it’s a wonder he hasn’t broken it in half yet.

Jared puts the photo back, the way it was, and leans against the library, regarding Jensen. “I thought you stopped,” he says.

Jensen takes a long drag of his cigarette and breathes out the smoke out the window, not giving Jared a single, the most fleeting glimpse. “I thought you wanted to talk,” he returns.

“Right.” Only Jared doesn’t really know what to talk about. What to say, and how. “Jensen, where is Danneel?” he asks eventually, thinking that the turned photo speaks loud and eloquently enough even if Jensen decides to remain silent.

“Not here.”

“Hasn’t been for a while.”

“She’s home.”

“You told her.”

Jensen sighs and bites on the nail of his thumb, keeping his eyes on the grayish darkness outside. “Didn’t have to,” he replies, speaking a notch quitter, softer than before. He glances at Jared, his eyes sad and guilty, mirroring something more, unspoken. “Turns out I’m a really shitty actor when it comes to… you and me.”

Jared’s stomach drops somewhere to the level of his feet. “Wha-what did she say?”

Jensen chuckles darkly. “’That’s great, Jensen. I’m really happy for you’.” For that one, little moment his voice gets back to the arctic cold, poisonous.

“Jensen.”

“What do you think she said?” Jensen questions, his tone broken and tired, small. His eyes sweep away once more, watching the thin, bluish stripe of smoke rising from his cigarette. “’What is it?’ she said. ‘In him. What does he do that he breaks all of your walls so easily? How? Why? Is it because he’s a man? Or is it just… Jared?’” Jensen hisses a breath through his teeth and shakes his head, staring at Jared. He looks so lost, fragile even. “It’s you, Jare. It’s always been only you.”

“I’m sorry,” Jared says, quiet, almost breathless. It’s poor and insufficient, he’s aware of that, but he doesn’t know what else to say, how to react. All he knows is that he feels the same, knows how scary it is. He had never considered himself bi, let alone gay. Until he met Jensen. Then it was like two pieces of puzzle clicking together. Two pieces made for each other and perfect, and yet unable to actually settle down and fit, keep the whole picture from falling apart. Jensen’s been the only person who’s ever gotten so close to Jared, so deep. And who frightened him more than anyone or anything else.

Jensen snorts and crushes the rest of his cigarette against the sill, releasing the remaining smoke from his lungs through his nose. “Yeah, I bet you are,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Without thinking, Jared erases the small distance between them and closes his fingers around Jensen’s elbow, holding tight and undoubtedly bruising, and spins him around to look into his face.

He’s not that tall, not enough to tower over Jensen as he does with other people, but Jensen still startles, his eyes settling on Jared’s face, large and surprised. Briefly, Jared wonders if it’s fear, the sudden insecurity of not knowing what Jared wants to do, or just their proximity. The heat and chemistry that literally sparkle between them, now, still, so powerful and tangible, rising even more with emotions.

“You think I’m glad?!” he asks, so angry and irritated, frustrated of Jensen’s coldness and ignorance that it almost scares him, too. “You think I want you to be miserable? So sick of yourself and us like you are? You really think that?!”

Jensen closes his eyes for a second and bites his lip, drawing it into his mouth. The sealed cut on the brim reopens again and Jared watches, captivated, as the first thick drops of blood slowly swell up, dripping down and sliding over Jensen’s chin, contrasting with the pale shade of his skin. “I swore it was over,” Jensen whispers, looking up at Jared like he’s supposed to make it better, fix it all, somehow. Like Jared, probably, in fact should. “I swore to Danni. To myself… You promised the same,” he remains.

“Some… promises are too hard to keep.” Jared reaches out and touches his free hand to Jensen’s mouth gently, catching one of the ruby glistening droplets with the pad of his thumb.

Jensen watches him intently, still, not even blinking. “Is that what you told her?” he wonders. “That we tried, but the moment we were alone together it just happened?”

Breathing all of a sudden faster, louder, Jared dares another step forward; close enough his shoes touch Jensen’s bare feet, and strokes his knuckle beneath Jensen’s lower lip, smearing the slowly drying blood. “She doesn’t know,” he says. “We’re…” _Not quite together right now_. “She’s been really busy now.” Tilting Jensen’s chin up, Jared leans down, nearer, breathing in Jensen’s hot, tobacco scented breath and his nervousness, his want. Jensen’s eyes flicker down to Jared’s mouth and he parts his lips a little, inching closer. And pulls back, turning his head away the very second Jared’s lips brush his. He scrunches his face up like it’s hurting him to move back instead of towards Jared, and shakes off Jared’s touch, wiping his bleeding mouth with the hem of his _Metallica_ T-shirt. Jared is fairly sure that it used to be black, once, but now it’s washed out to gray, worn to softness.

Jensen’s fingers violently shake when he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out there a crumpled pack of cigarettes, but Jared stops him before he has a chance to fish out another cancer stick. He puts his hand on Jensen’s, cold as ice, and squeezes, lightly, but insistently. “Don’t.”

“I-I need some… water,” Jensen stammers before he walks away, disappearing in the kitchen.

  


Leaning his elbows on the window sill, Jared looks out at the city and breathes in the late night air full of dry grass and hot asphalt and lake water. It’s a quiet night, unusually so, and almost white, toned by the moonlight and all the streetlamps that frame the roads along the hotel. Jensen’s floor is practically still, silent, until a loud, glassy crash resonates from the kitchen, followed by a muted, but heated curse.

“Jensen?”

  


There’s a broken glass on the snow white tiles of the kitchen, sharp shards that sparkle under the fluorescent light, reflecting the drops and splotches of crimson in between.

Jensen’s sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the side of the kitchen island and resting his forehead on the heel of his hand propped up on his bent knee. His cupped palm slowly fills up with blood that trickles in between his fingers, staining his bare arms and the denim of his jeans, but he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to it. There’s another lit cigarette dangling from between his index and middle finger, spattered with blood, wet.

“It’s a sin, you know?” he says tonelessly when Jared drops to his knees in front of him with a dry dishcloth and wraps it carefully around Jensen’s trembling hand. “What we did… _Adultery_.”

Nodding in what is not quite an agreement, Jared releases the cigarette from Jensen’s fingers and tosses it into the sink, and takes Jensen gently by the wrist, seizing his other elbow to pull him up to his feet. Unwrapping the provisional bandage, he puts Jensen’s hand under a current of cold water and stands up behind him, keeping him upright when he sways under the sudden burst of pain as the water hits the open cuts. There’s a V-shaped gash in the middle of his palm, crossing both his head and life lines, and several small cuts on the pads of his fingers. All of them are still bleeding, but they aren’t that deep to require stitches.

“And you know what’s even worse?” Jensen continues in his monologue; the pain seeping into his voice, making it sound breathy and shaky. “She knew it would happen. And I should have promised that it wouldn’t, but I didn’t… Because I knew it, too.”

  


Sitting on the marble desk of the kitchen island, Jensen dangles his feet in the air, occasionally kicking the door of one of the drawers, and holding his wounded hand with the other. It’s still wrapped only in the dishcloth, cleaned and disinfected, and Jensen’s half asleep, even though he refused to take any pills to ease the pain.

Jared’s leaning against the kitchenette, watching Jensen and wondering why he just can’t make himself go, leave, finally, when his attempts at talking are evidently going absolutely nowhere.

“Sometimes I hate you for doing this to me,” Jensen says, speaking again after a long while of silence, and looking up from the floor and the few drops of blood that Jared’s somehow forgotten to clean.

He looks even worse than a while ago; green and ashy pale in the face, with flushed cheeks and tiny droplets of sweat that pearl at his hairline, his throat, and completely exhausted. Jared doesn’t understand how he still manages to stay awake and cope, doesn’t dare to ask how many days he’s been actually awake.

“You were gone, you should have stayed gone. With her.”

Jared can hear the tears, unshed but nearly visible, all the emotions that weaken Jensen’s voice and give his words such a vulnerable edge. He seems naked; riding high on anguish and adrenaline, finally honest, open, saying what he really feels. And Jared’s glad for that, even though it hurts.

“Most of the time I just hate myself. For falling so hard. For… letting you go so easily. Me and Danni, we were supposed to be happy. I thought… I thought that I would just push everything down. Forget what we used to have. Forget _us_. Instead… My life’s a mess.” Jensen flicks his thumbnail against the burning end of the cigarette Jared unsuccessfully tried to talk him out of, and dusts off the ash into the low glass he uses for an ashtray. He bites his lip thoughtfully, his teeth catching on the scab once again, and shakes his head, takes another drag, then puts the cigarette down. “And I’m not even sure I really wanna fix it.”

Unsure, Jared draws away from the counter and takes a few, hesitant steps towards Jensen. He’s probably reading Jensen wrong, maybe he just hears what he wants to hear, but he can’t help thinking that it sounds a little like an invitation. He stops in between Jensen’s spread knees, just looking at him, watching him, wanting to reach out and kiss him, slip his hands beneath the worn T-shirt and feel Jensen’s skin, so soft and hot, pull him closer. He wishes for Jensen to do something, to be, just once, the one who loses the fight, who gives up first. Even when it’s wrong.

Jensen’s not moving, doesn’t look like he’s planning or wanting to move, but his words draw Jared in like the opposite pole of magnet. “I can still feel you. Taste you… And sometimes I miss you so much it physically hurts. Sometimes I can’t even let her touch me, because she’s not you.”

“ _Jensen_.” Jared, honest to God, _growls_ , confused and aroused and angry with all of them, and unable to hold back any longer. He puts his hand at the nape of Jensen’s neck, sliding his fingers through the soft, a little sweaty hair, and cradles Jensen’s head, keeping him still as he leans down.

Jensen says, “No,” a little choked, quiet, and so full of yes that Jared doesn’t feel like stopping for real, or slowing down.

He doesn’t care that it’s him, again, who takes the first, forbidden step. Who presses his lips against the other one’s mouth, nudging it open, wanting to feel the heat of it, the mixture of tobacco and peach flavored green tea, taste Jensen underneath it all.

Jensen’s lips part practically immediately, in despite of his protests, and he sighs, the moan vibrating something dark deep inside of Jared. He grabs Jensen’s hips, gripping them hard enough to leave marks, hopes that there will be some, purple and pink and yellow that will tell her, and yanks him closer until their groins are pressed together, nothing but a few layers of clothing dividing them. Not much and too much, not enough to hide their arousal. They both moan at the first contact, shivering slightly, and Jensen’s knees framing Jared’s body close tighter around him, pressing firmly against his thighs.

Skidding his hands beneath the soft fabric of Jensen’s shirt, Jared runs his thumbs up and down Jensen’s sides, drawing unrecognizable circles over his hipbones, just feeling his skin, _him_.

Opening his mouth a bit more, Jensen flickers his tongue out, touching Jared’s lips, copying the contour of them before he really dives inside, finding Jared’s. He feels hot, almost too much, and sweet, bitter where the cigarette flavor lingers, so familiar. His healthy hand comes to rest at Jared’s shoulder blade, warm and a little damp with sweat, as he tries to guide Jared even closer, until their chests are pressed together, heaving against each other. His fingers move on, shifting down Jared’s back and leaving a tingling sensation all along his spine as they move lower to anchor in the back pocket of Jared’s jeans. It’s a place where Jensen’s hand would usually land every time they kissed.

Their kiss now is almost innocent, slow, and it’s the teasing, tentative way of Jensen’s tongue that makes Jared’s toes curl, filling his body with heat that glides through every nerve ending and settles low in his belly. He wants, _so bad_. To slide into Jensen, once more, _crawl_ into him and soak each of his pores with him, have him that close, just one more time, a million times more. And screw all the promises and rings that burn their skin, branding them, screw everything else, because nothing matters but Jensen.

He loves Genevieve, somehow, still, and he can’t not feel guilty and bad for desiring someone else, so much more, stronger, but it’s no longer enough to stop him. She’s gentle and sweet, innocent and safe, but Jensen is like a little tornado, a disaster, the light that lulls Jared in like a baffled moth, and he goes, no matter how dangerous it is and how much it hurts, no matter the scars it leaves. Sometimes he thinks he wants Jensen that much only because he _can’t_ have him, not anymore, because he’s not supposed to have him. Most of the time he knows it’s nowhere near that simple.

Biting gently at the curve of Jensen’s upper lip, Jared breaks the kiss and pulls away, pressing his nose to the hard line of Jensen’s collarbone bared in the worn shirt. He struggles to take a breath, but all he really breathes in is Jensen. Cigarettes and shower gel, something citrusy and sea-like, and a hot tang of sweat and the fragrance of his skin. Past and memories. “I want you,” he whispers, complains, voice hoarse and barely there, his heart thundering in his ears. “ _Goddamnit_ , Jen. So much… The more I’m supposed to keep back. The less I can, the more I want.”

Jensen drops his forehead on Jared’s shoulder and sighs heavily, his fingers tightening their vice-tight grip on Jared’s pocket even as he says, “You should go.”

“Jen…” Jared wants to protest, ask for something more, just a little bit more, especially when he knows that Jensen wants it, too, but he doesn’t. Because he’s terrified that what he hears in Jensen’s voice are actually tears, and he can’t, doesn’t know how to chase them away, make it better.

“You _need_ to go,” Jensen says again. “Jared, _please_.”

And Jared does, walking out the door and pretending that he’s not two seconds from breaking down himself.


End file.
